Portia looks at me and shrugs.

I shrug back. ‘Okay.’

Lie.

‘Good.’ He claps his hands together, perhaps a signal of success. He and Portia return to their previous tasks while I find a can of green paint. Bright green paint. I have to stretch up on my tiptoes to write what used to be there.

Here I am

8/

I wasn’t the one who wrote it the first time, but I know who did. The original message was just like that, with the date left unfinished. I paint it just like it was. My handwriting isn’t the same, but it’s close. It makes me feel better that her graffiti is back where it belongs.

Back where she belongs.

You knew about her. Even if you didn’t consciously know, you knew because it’s how these stories go. It’s a law. Maybe even written in stone by now.

There’s always a missing girl.

Our motel near the Cadillac Ranch is the worst yet. Given where we’ve been, that’s saying something. The Whirlybird has always been a dump, from the paper-thin walls to the walk-up window that serves as a check-in desk and a place to buy cigarettes. Maybe other things as well. They have to be doing something to stay in business.

‘Tomorrow I want to stay in a decent place,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t have to be fancy, just clean with real towels, maybe a coffeemaker.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Felix says.

‘And for once, Portia should have her own room. We can afford that for one night.’

‘Aren’t you a princess,’ Felix says.

I smile. ‘Bow next time you say that.’

‘Will do,’ he says. ‘That was cool today. The Cadillacs.’

‘Yeah, it was.’

Lie.

‘What did you paint?’ he says.

‘Just the usual. Initials, the date. The “I was here” thing.’

‘Me too.’

It’s late. Felix is already in bed and shutting down his laptop. The day has been a long one and I should be tired. Instead, I stand up so fast it startles him.

‘You okay?’ he says. Just like I knew he would.

‘Fine. I just want to get a soda from the vending machine. Maybe walk around a minute. It’s stuffy in here.’

‘Oh.’ He looks at me, then at the door. ‘You want me to come with?’

‘No, no. You get some rest. I’ll be fine.’

‘Take your phone.’

I do. I bring my phone and my wallet and as soon as I walk out of that musty room, I take a big gulp of cool air.

There’s nothing around, nothing to see except a clear sky. Five cars are in the parking lot; one is ours and the others are scattered in front of a few rooms. All have out-of-state license plates. More road-trippers as unlucky as us to stay here.

Right by the street entrance, there’s an old wooden chair. Functional, yet ugly. It looks like someone put it out for the trash but no one picked it up. I don’t have my disinfectant spray; however, the wood does look cleaner than the ground. I sit.

Here I am

8/

I’ve always wondered if she was going to add more. Her name, maybe. I don’t know why. Even if she did, it was probably nothing. Some silly, rambling thing. Something a seventeen-year-old girl thought was important enough to memorialize in green paint on a Cadillac. That’s why I painted it again: because it deserves to be there. Her words should be where she wants them.

Felix doesn’t know about her, the same way he doesn’t know about our parents or about what happened on the first road trip. I’m not going to tell him unless I have to.

My phone buzzes. I don’t look at first, assuming it’s Felix, but it’s Portia. She says:

Eddie thinks you’re losing it

I answer:

He’s assuming I ever had it?

Nice. You’re up?

Outside. Look for the wooden chair.

Minutes later, I hear her footsteps.

‘Scoot,’ she says.

I do. We share, each with one butt cheek on and one off.

‘What did he say?’ I ask.

‘It was after dinner. He pulled me aside and asked if I thought you were okay. I said you had never been okay.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Welcome. Then he went on and on about how you were staring at the car, looking for her graffiti. Maybe looking for her. He thinks you’re going to drive yourself crazy if that’s what you’re doing.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Mmm?’

I shrug. ‘It’s weirder that he doesn’t give a shit about her. That he isn’t looking at all.’

I glance over at her and it hits me, again, how young she is. I swear she could pass for twenty. ‘He needs the money,’ she says.

‘We all need the money.’

‘I mean, he really needs it.’ She pauses, scraping the ground with her thick leather boot. ‘I’ve heard him arguing with Krista about it. And a couple of nights ago, he was yelling about a judgment and lien.’

It’s that big house of his. Eddie’s money problems are much worse than mine, and much worse than I originally thought. ‘No wonder he’s so protective of Grandpa’s ashes,’ I say.

Portia laughs. ‘He sleeps with that box next to the bed.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. I mean, I need the money, too. But not like that.’

Just enough for her to pay off the student loans and stop stripping. Get out of that crappy apartment. Stop living with a roommate who sells something. Drugs. Maybe herself. The inheritance is more than enough.

‘I don’t think this is all about money,’ I say. ‘Grandpa could’ve just given it to us. He wanted us to go on this trip for a reason.’

‘Eddie doesn’t care.’

‘Do you?’

She looks out at the dark street like a car might appear. It doesn’t. ‘Yes and no? Like the thing with today, the paint. The Cadillacs. I remember that day, and I remember the fight and the green paint and she was yelling about not finishing. But I don’t really know what happened, I was too young to understand.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s been twenty years. I can’t imagine knowing would change anything.’

I disagree with everything she said. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say.

She pats my arm, like she’s the older one. ‘Of course I am. Now let’s go back into this shitty motel and get some rest.’

I almost stop her, almost tell her about someone coming into the room at the last motel. ‘You go,’ I say. ‘I’m not tired yet.’

I watch her walk back to the motel. Portia was only six during the first road trip. She missed a lot and doesn’t remember half of what happened.

I do. Not only what happened, but also what we were like. We are right back to being who we used to be.

Portia, too young to know what she was seeing. Me, wanting to see everything, know about everyone. Especially her. Eddie, blinders on, looking straight ahead, not admitting she existed.

And her. Nikki.

The firstborn. Our older sister.

Nikki with her wild, flaxen hair, her blazing eyes, her body constantly in motion. Here, there, everywhere, all at once.

And I have her journal.